Remus Lupin's Lost Years
by Komaki Nakao
Summary: James and Lily were dead. Sirius was in Azkaban and Peter was on the lamb. Remus was... You're about to find out what Remus Lupin was up to.
1. Death Be Not Proud

The funeral home in Godric's Hollow was small; much too small to comfortably seat the dozens upon dozens of attendees that had arrived to pay their respects. The pews were all stuffed full, and the aisles were all crowded with people who hadn't arrived early enough to get a seat. Every surviving member of the Order of the Phoenix was there, though now that the war was over, we didn't really account for much.

I suppose I was lucky; as an usher, I was seated in the front row. The service was closed casket, as both bodies had been badly mangled when the house collapsed, and photographs of the deceased were placed on top of their respective caskets. Every time I looked up, the images of my friends would smile at me, so I soon resolved to keep my gaze pinned to the floor.

I didn't _feel_ lucky. In twenty-four hours, I had lost my four dearest friends, and this was the third funeral I had attended in as many days. First was Caradoc Dearborn, who had disappeared months before; his body was never found, and his family had finally given up hope. Later that evening, I attended the funeral of Peter Pettigrew, one of my closest friends. It wasn't an extravagant service – attended only by myself, Peter's mother, and a few others – but that's how he would have wanted it. And now, at last, it was time for Lily and James.

I quickly got bored of the floor – the disgusting paisley print made me feel dizzy – and turned my attention to the pamphlet. I had thrown them together myself, so there wasn't anything special about them. Just words stamped onto a piece of paper, folded in half. The inside of the booklet read:

_James Potter  
Born March 27th, 1960  
Died October 31st, 1981_

_Lily Potter  
Born January 30th, 1960  
Died October 31st, 1981_

_The Potters were both brutally murdered by Lord Voldemort in their home in Godric's Hollow, on Halloween night, 1981. They are both survived by their only son, Harry James Potter, whom they died to defend, and Petunia Dursley, Lily's elder sister. They were both twenty-one years old._

I had never been very creative; James and Lily deserved better than that. Peter would have been able to come up with something better, if he hadn't been so inclined to chase after Sirius when he found out he had been the one who handed the Potters over to Voldemort. Sirius himself probably would have been able to give a lovely eulogy; at least, the person we all thought he was could have done such a thing.

I was so lost inside my thoughts that I didn't notice that Albus Dumbledore had stepped up to the podium. Today, he seemed even older than usual, with dark circles under his eyes that could rival even my own. He had exchanged his colorful robes for black ones.

"I've never liked funerals," he said, and I glanced up from my pamphlet quickly, hoping that no one noticed. They didn't, of course; their attention was focused on Dumbledore. "They always remind me of the first time I broke my nose," he smiled at us, touching the tip of his finger to his crooked snout.

A loud coughing sound came from somewhere in the crowd, and Dumbledore looked out across the room, as if he hoped to find the culprit. After a few seconds, he seemed satisfied, and continued with his speech, "But I digress. Many great witches and wizards have been killed in this terrible war, and – while their deaths are a very tragic event – I am pleased to say that James and Lily Potter will be the last."

There was some applause, but I didn't feel like clapping. Dumbledore glanced over at me, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to be searching my soul. I could only look at him for a few moments before I had to turn away.

"And now," he said, halting the applause almost instantly. "A personal friend of the deceased, Remus Lupin, will say a few words."

I swallowed, nearly tripping as I stepped up to the podium. Right away, I noticed that the section we had reserved for Lily's family was empty. Dumbledore stood off to the side, watching me intently as I pulled a piece of parchment from my pocket.

They were all watching me, I realized as I looked out across the crowd. They were all waiting for me to say something. Something profound. Something that would wipe all their grief away. I knew I would disappoint them.

"Hello," I said, surprised at how loud my voice sounded with the aid of the microphone. "Lily and James were both dear friends of mine, and…"

I trailed off, swallowing my tears before too many of them managed to escape. I knew I wouldn't be able to say everything I wanted to say, even if I could put it into words. I would have fall apart if I had even tried.

I cleared my throat, "I… I have a poem I'd like to read. It was written by a muggle poet called John Donne; it was one of Lily's favorites…"

I unfolded the paper, which I had scrolled the poem on earlier that day. Once again, I cleared my throat before I spoke:

"_Death, be not proud, though some have called thee_

_Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;_

_For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow_

_Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me._

_From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,_

_Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,_

_And soonest our best men with thee do go,_

_Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery._

_Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,_

_And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,_

_And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well_

_And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?_

_One short sleep past, we wake eternally,_

_And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die_."

I folded up the poem, knowing that I'd probably never be able to read it again. It was a shame; it was one of my favorites as well. "James and Lily may be gone… But they'll never be forgotten. Thank you."

The room was quiet as I returned to my place in the first row, neatly fitting back into the crowd. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, suddenly feeling very cold.

"That was beautiful, Remus," Sturgis Podmore, a wizard with straw colored hair said, rubbing my shoulder in a way that was too rough to be comforting.

"Yes," Emmeline Vance, who was sitting behind me, agreed. "That was such a lovely poem; I think Lily would have liked it."

"I t-thought so, too," I said, offering her a half-hearted smile.

_It would be so much easier to get through this if Peter and Sirius were here,_ I couldn't help but think as the service continued. Several more spoke, including Emmeline and the famous Auror Alastor Moody. By the time Sturgis, the rest of the ushers, and I brought the caskets out to the cemetery, it felt as though the funeral had lasted for half a lifetime.

But after the caskets were in the ground and the last words were said, I found myself unable to leave. Even as the crowd broke, and Emmeline begged me to return to her house for the wake, I couldn't bring myself to abandon the fresh graves.

Others lingered, but even that group eroded away as the hours past. I knew I should join them; it was late, and the fleshed-out moon began to make its appearance as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. Eventually, there were only two of us left.

"You have no right to be here," I said, meaning to sound menacing, yet still surprised at the venom in my own voice. I'd never heard myself sound like that before, and I wasn't sure if I liked it.

"I did everything I could to save her," Severus Snape said. There was no sadness in his voice, not a hint of remorse; it was merely a statement of fact. I'm sure his facial expression was equally emotionless, though I couldn't read it through his curtain of black hair.

"Your lord isn't exactly a merciful one," I said dryly.

"I don't have to justify myself to you, Lupin," he said, his voice suddenly bordering on the edge of hysteria. "I did everything I could to save her!"

"But she's still dead, isn't she?" I spat back at him. "They're all dead, Severus. All of my closest friends are _dead_!"

Snape inhaled sharply, and for a second I thought he would draw his wand. I began to reach for mine as well, knowing from experience that he wasn't an advocate of fighting fair. I don't think anything could have prepared me for what Snape did next.

He walked away. No threats, no curses, not even a final spiteful comment. Severus Snape turned his back on me, and I swear I heard a soft sob escape his lips as he left me alone in Godric's Hollow cemetery.

"Such a shameful sight," a calm voice said. "Two grown men fighting like children…"

I spun around quickly, drawing my wand out of habit. I was positive that Snape and I had been alone, but somehow, I must have missed the young girl. She had long, blond hair that tumbled around her shoulders in a way that suggested that she had been playing in the nearby woods. She wore a beautiful blue dress, which I quickly realized wasn't from the present century.

"Who are you?" I demanded, lowering my wand slowly. Surely I didn't have anything to fear from a little girl…

"My name is Ariana," she said, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet. "What's yours?"

"Lupin," I replied, genuinely smiling for the first time in several days. "Remus Lupin."

"That's an interesting name," she said, sitting down on a nearby tombstone. "You don't happen to have a twin brother named Romulus, do you? If you do, I'd watch out for him."

"You shouldn't sit on someone's grave like that," I told her. "It's very disrespectful."

Ariana giggled, "But it's my own. See for yourself."

Of course, I didn't believe her – Ariana appeared too solid to be a ghost – but as she moved her legs, the aged carvings on the old marble were revealed, and I feel over backwards with shock as I read:

**Ariana Josephine Leona Winifred Dumbledore**  
1885 – 1899  
_Gone, but never forgotten_

"It's not possible…" I mouthed, my words carried away by a sudden gust of wind. I held my arms up over my face, protecting my eyes from the dead leaves that were sent flying through the air. The sound of Ariana's laughter danced around me until the wind died down.

When I looked up, she was gone. I scrambled to my feet, my back aching from the fall as I looked behind each surrounding gravestone for the little girl. But it was no use; she had vanished.

"Ariana?" I called out, cupping my hands over my mouth. There was no response.

_The cemetery is haunted,_ James had told me once, on one of the many occasions Sirius, Peter and I visited him in the summer during our school days. _There are all kinds of spirits running around in there. I used to see them all the time, when I was a little kid._

I shook my head, forcing the thought out of my mind. That was preposterous; the girl I had seen was a solid human being, I was sure of it.

"Snape!" I shouted, suddenly concerned that he was playing some cruel joke on me. "Severus, if this is some kind of prank, I swear…"

It was no use, I knew. If there really had been someone in that graveyard with me, they were gone. I was alone.

I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as I rubbed the bridge of my nose, "I'm going mad, aren't I? Look, I'm even talking to myself…"


	2. The Yellow Wallpaper

The sun was on the rise again before I returned to my flat. I went everywhere else I could possibly think to go; the wake at Emmeline Vance's home, the Leaky Cauldron – where the celebration of the lives of Lily and James Potter continued well into the early morning hours – and several other nameless establishments along the way. I wandered around aimlessly until there was no place left to go but home.

If you could even call it a home, that is. Sirius had been given a nice sum of money from an uncle of his, and James generously paid my rent using the enormous fortune he had inherited from his parents. Even so, Sirius and I had elected to live modestly (inconspicuously) in a small, two-bedroom flat with outdated appliances and ugly yellow wallpaper. While it had reminded me – quite fondly - of a favorite story of mine, Sirius had insisted on covering the "monstrosity" with posters and anything else he could find. Almost every inch of the living room was covered with muggle pinup girls, motorcycles, and anything else he could scrape together to hide the wallpaper beneath.

I couldn't wrap my mind around it, even then. The man I had been living with for over a year, who had been one of my dearest friends for more than half my life, had not only been passing information to Voldemort, but murdered Peter Pettigrew and twelve other people.

When had it started? When had Sirius joined up with the Death Eaters? How long had he been planning this? Was it even planned at all?

I had _lived_ with him! The Daily Prophet had described him as mad, yet in all the time we'd spent together, I detected no hints of insanity… other than what would be considered "normal" for him, at least.

I should have noticed something. There _must_ have been some subtle change in behavior, something I didn't think was important at the time…

"He could have killed me," I realized aloud, dragging my feet with exhaustion on my way to my room. It was a sparsely furnished space, containing only a mattress and my trunk, which was currently being used as a table for my record player. "He knew I was part of the Order, he knew about all of my vulnerabilities. He could have killed me any time he wanted."

_It should have been me,_ I thought, stripping down to my underwear and slipping into the cold sheets. _I'm not even half as valuable as Lily and James were. I don't have a child…_

Poor Harry; he was the real victim. Dumbledore had assured me that the boy would be raised by family – which was the best thing for him, I thought at the time – but that wasn't the same. Because of Sirius, Harry would never know his parents.

"It isn't right," I sobbed, covering my face with an extra pillow. "Sirius was the boy's _godfather_…"

I must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because eventually I woke up. The curtains had been left open, allowing the late-fall sunlight to flood the room. On any other day, I might have found that a pleasant way to wake up. But, as things stood, I found myself cursing under my breath as I pulled my blanket over my head to block out the light.

_It's always so cold in here,_ I thought, curling up in the warm space my body had occupied during the night. _Why did we choose to live in this hellish place? We could have found a modest dwelling that wasn't so damn cold…_

I confined myself to my room as much as possible; only leaving when it was absolutely necessary. I must have eaten at some point, but I'm not sure when or what. The only thing I remember drinking was the bottle of Fire Whisky Sirius had hidden under the sink for "special occasions". When I finished, that, I drank murky tap water.

Now that the war was over, I was out of a job – if you could even call working for the Order of the Phoenix a job. It paid nothing, but it kept me busy. It was sickeningly ironic; the thing I had fought so long against was finally defeated, and as soon as I noticed its absence, I missed it.

And then there were the flowers. At first, I found them heartwarming; bright pockets of energy in my otherwise dull existence. But they quickly became a plague that I would do anything to be rid of. They occupied every spare inch of the flat; I couldn't even use the loo without knocking an arrangement over.

There were flowers to compliment my work as a member of the Order. There were flowers to console me for my many losses. It seemed as if every person I had ever met suddenly felt the need to send me foliage in some shape or form. There were all types of flowers; carnations, roses, violets, tulips, sunflowers, even a few exotic breeds I didn't recognize. There were no lilies. Individually, each bloom was gorgeous. Together, they were grotesque and obnoxious.

"If I never see another flower again, it will be too soon," I muttered to myself as I watched a pot of marigolds wilt in front of me while I ate my breakfast of plain oatmeal.

There was a knock at the door, and I swore that if it was another florist I would strangle them with my bare hands. I was surprised, however, when I opened the door and found the landlady on the other side.

She was a plump woman, with graying hair that puffed out in a way that added several centimeters to her height. Even with this added height, the top of her head hardly cleared my waist. Her skin was wrinkled and saggy; I was always afraid to take a guess at the woman's age, for fear of insulting her. For the most part, she kept to herself in her basement apartment, coming up for air and rent once a month.

"Good morning, Bea," I said, hoping I sounded happier than I felt.

"I think you mean afternoon, Remus dear," she said. She might have sounded sweet – grandmotherly, perhaps, or possibly _flirtatious_ – but Bea's voice had gone raspy from years of cigarette smoke, and it was difficult to interpret what sort of tone she was using.

I scratched the back of my neck, "That late already?"

"Remus," she said, pausing to cough into her hand. The noise was so loud and violent that I couldn't help but cringe. "Remus, can I come in? We need to talk."

"Oh, yes," I said, moving aside. "Of course."

I shut the door after Bea waddled in, making herself at home in my favorite armchair. She had to crawl into it like a child, and the image was just as endearing. Until she was settled, and pulled a cigarette and her lighter – a Zippo decorated with a half-naked woman – and lit up. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, the expression on her face suggesting that she had achieved Nirvana just as she exhaled.

Her eyes shot open, landing on me, "Well, sit."

I obeyed her order wordlessly, sitting down on the sofa across from her. Her eyes slowly scanned the room, stopping to glare distastefully when she spotted a poster that displeased her.

"I've never liked that disgusting wallpaper," she said before she took another drag. "My first husband picked it out, you know. That was back when we were living up here."

"I didn't know you used to live in this apartment," I said.

Bea nodded, "He died in the kitchen, you know."

I gulped, "Is that so?"

"Fell out the window, he did," she said offhandedly. "It was a shame, really. He was one of the best shags I've ever had."

"That's, er… wonderful."

"We might have made it, Ernie and I," she said. "We really had something special. You ever had something special, Remus? With a lady, I mean."

"No," I said. "I suppose I haven't."

She chuckled, "With a man?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I've always wondered," she said, putting her cigarette out on the table. "Two men, living together. Hardly ever saw any women come up here. And then there's all these flowers…"

_Sirius brought girls up here all the time,_ I thought, but I bit my tongue. I knew she wasn't trying to upset me; Bea almost never thought about what she was going to say before she blurted something out. "I can assure you, it was nothing like that. And I didn't order these flowers. People keep sending them to me."

"There's nothing wrong, you know, if you are," she said, looking at me seriously. "I think my third husband might have been a homosexual."

I cleared my throat, adjusting the collar of my shirt, "Bea, I'm not gay."

"You're fidgeting," she said. "That means you're uncomfortable."

"My landlady just showed up out of the blue and started questioning my sexuality," I said. "Of course I'm uncomfortable."

"I didn't just show up out of the blue," she said as she lit her next cigarette. "I needed to have a word with you about your rent money."

"My rent?" I replied. "What about it?"

"I know this isn't a good time for this," she said. "The Potters haven't even been gone a whole month, the poor souls…"

I knew what was coming, and my gaze quickly landed on my shoes.

"Now that James is dead, it's very difficult for him to pay your rent for you," she continued. I knew she was trying to be funny – Bea wasn't a bad person – but hearing her mention my friend's death mentioned so casually made me shiver.

It occurred to me then that Bea never took death seriously. Whenever I spoke to her, she would joke about the death of one of her many husbands, relatives, or lovers. It occurred to me that it was possible – by the time one reaches Bea's age - to experience so many deaths that it becomes so trite that you stop being affected by it. I wondered how much longer it would be before I reached that point in my life.

"And Mr. Black can no longer pay his share of the rent, of course, being in Azkaban and all," she said, taking another deep. "I can't believe it; a man capable of murdering thirteen people has been living in my building for almost a year now!"

"Yeah," I said, forcing out a smile. "Hard to believe…"

"There's a man on the first floor who said he knew one of the people he killed," she informed me. "A sister in law, he said. Says he's going to be moving out soon, to stay with the family. Guess his niece is having a hard time."

"It's a shame," I said, unable to muster any emotions for these people I had never met. I could hardly muster enough emotion to grieve for the people _I_ had lost.

"At any rate," she shrugged. "I'm going to need your rent money by the end of the week."

"The end of the week?" I said, looking up suddenly. "Bea-"

"I'm really sorry, Remus," she said, and her eyes looked half-sincere. "But with Jacky moving out I can't afford to cut you any slack. If you can't get the money together by the end of the week, I'm going to have to evict you."

"I understand," I said, trying to swallow my frustration. "You're in a difficult place here."

"I wish you the best, dear," she said, hopping off of the chair. She gave my shoulder a pat before she left. A cloud of smoke lingered in the air.

_Bloody hell,_ I thought, glaring at the potted plant in front of me. Rationally, I knew it wasn't the plant's fault – those delightful pink blooms had never done anything to hurt me – but I felt a sudden urge to knock them over.

I don't remember actually doing it. I only remember sitting there, on the sofa, and then suddenly looking at a pile of dirt and broken porcelain, the back of my hand cut open and bleeding all over the carpet.


	3. The Bandersnatch

"I still can't believe that devil of a woman," my mother said, changing the bandage on my hand, because my own handy work hadn't been good enough. "Throwing you out onto the street, after all you've been through! How horrible!"

"She couldn't just let me stay there for free," I said. "She has to support herself, you know."

"She could have at least given you some time to get the money together," my father said from behind his three day old newspaper.

"Even if she did, I wouldn't have been able to," I said. "You know how difficult it is for me to find paid work."

"I know," he said, sounding a bit agitated. "I was merely suggesting that-"

"You two stop it," Mum scolded, shooting her husband a dirty glare before she looked at me warmly. "Remus, you can stay with us as long as you need to."

"Thank you, Mother. I really appreciate it," I said, though in my mind I was struggling to think of a way to get out of staying with my parents for too long. They hardly had enough money to take care of themselves, and I had put them through enough trouble during my youth. They were both starting to get so old; my father's hair had thinned significantly since the last time I had seen them, and my mother's now consisted of more gray strands than black.

They couldn't afford to keep me for too long, anyway. My parents were living on my father's dwindling pension from his Auror days and the small wage my mother brought home from her job at a muggle children's library. The old Lupin house – which the lineage had occupied for centuries – was falling into disrepair and I was positive that neither of them had purchased a new change of clothes since my childhood.

"Tomorrow, I'll make your favorite dinner," she declared as she packed up her first aid kit. "Roast beef and potatoes."

"Imogen," my father said, looking at her over the edge of the paper. "His favorite food was always roast _chicken,_ wasn't it?"

"I think I would remember my only son's favorite meal, John," she said, sounding quite agitated. "When he would return from Hogwarts in the summer time, he would always _demand_ I make roast beef for him."

As always, Dad didn't notice her mood change. "I'm almost positive Remus prefers chicken, my love."

Having been part of the Lupin family for a long twenty years, I knew better than to attempt to stop their bickering. John and Imogen squabbled over everything, and it never did any good to get in between them. Besides, my favorite food had always been chocolate…

"I think I'm going to my room," I said, slowly getting up from my chair.

"Are you sleepy already?" my mother asked.

"It isn't even nine o'clock," my father pointed out. "I had hoped we could all play some card games this evening…"

"Maybe tomorrow," I said, yawning with a slight twinge of guilt. "Moving was sort of stressful, and I would like to do a bit of reading before I actually go to sleep."

"Oh, alright," he said. "Tomorrow for sure, then."

"You don't have to entertain me," I told him. "I don't want to be any trouble."

"But we _want_ to spend time with you, Remus," she said, placing her gentle hand on my shoulder. "We're so happy to have you home again…"

"Goodnight, Mum," I said, managing to squeeze out some sort of smile before I made my exit, nodding at my dad on the way out.

I felt so out of place in my old room. My bed – which was still decorated with the same baby blue sheets I had used as a child – was far too short, and I knew I would end up falling out of it several times throughout the course of the night if I didn't transfigure it into something bigger. Faded crayon doodles from my childhood could still be seen, too sentimental for my mother to wash away even after I had grown and moved away.

Another thing that hadn't changed, I realized once I had changed into my pajamas, was the books on the shelf. I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me as I skimmed the titles my fifteen year old self had been so fond of, and for once I was happy that my parents hadn't meddled with the things I had left behind.

"Now that I think about it," I said to myself. "I haven't really _lived_ in this house since I started going to Hogwarts. And once I turned fifteen…"

_Once I turned fifteen, it was far more enjoyable to spend the summer months with Peter, James, and Sirius,_ I thought, grabbing an old book of poems from the shelf. _Once they became Animagi and started accompanying me during my transformations, going through them alone was so miserable…_

"There's a full moon at the end of this week," I reminded myself somberly, opening up the book.

_T'was brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the borogoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe. _

_Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  
Beware the jubjub bird, and shun  
The frumious Bandersnatch!_

I shut the book, muttering a few curses under my breath. I could never read past the second stanza; when I pictured the Bandersnatch, it always looked like a werewolf to me.

The image refused to leave my head for the next several days, and the stress of my impending transformation did nothing to help the already tense mood in the house. Towards the end of my cycle, I would typically become more and more irritable, and my urges and emotions became difficult to control. I would grow tired, no matter how many hours of sleep I accumulated. On the day of the full moon, a werewolf's eyes become extremely sensitive to light, to a point where going outside on a sunny day is extremely painful. My appetite decreased considerably, and – often to my profound embarrassment – my libido increased exponentially.

During this time period, I prefer to be alone. However, my mother had other ideas. I was lucky if I got five minutes to myself. There was always some chore around the house she wanted assistance with, or some errand she wanted me to accompany her on.

At least keeping busy made avoiding my father easier. Perhaps he was avoiding me, as well. The two of us had a complicated relationship; most of the time it was easier not to say anything to him. Though he constantly denied it, I knew that he couldn't stand the sight of me. He had lost his job as an Auror because of my lycanthropy, and driven himself into poverty searching for a cure.

During my school days, special accommodations had been made for me, so I could undergo my monthly transformation far from other human beings. Now that I was an adult, I had to make my own accommodations. It had taken me a few months to figure out a good arrangement (thank goodness James, Peter and Sirius had been able to assist me; who knows what might have happened…) Eventually I was able to find a secluded area where my inner wolf could run wild, without the constant worry of running into some poor, unsuspecting person. There was still some risk – there always was – but my options were extremely limited.

As the sun began its decent, I bid my parents goodnight and retreated to my bedroom. I could hear my mother sobbing and my father awkwardly consoling her as I removed my clothes. My werewolf body was a bit larger than my human one, and would easily tear through my clothing if I didn't remove it in time.

I wanted so badly to tell my mother that I would be okay, but I knew if I delayed my trip any longer, I might not get out of the house in time. With a heavy sigh, I closed my eyes and pictured the countryside where I would be spending the night. I heard a loud _crack_, and felt the familiar rush of Apparition. When I opened my eyes, the sun had disappeared, leaving behind just a few minutes of light. Those last few minutes were always the worst. Aside from the actual transformation, that is.

When the full moon appears in the sky, a werewolf can _feel_ it. It's like a cold chill running up and down your spine, a chill that refuses to go away. That disgusting orb somehow attracts all your attention, and your sanity.

I watched it for what felt like years, the other sounds around me vanishing almost completely. In those moments, the moon seems to be the only thing that matters – the only thing that exists.

Then, the pain begins.

I let out a low, hollow growl as the bones in my body began to break, reforming into their new shape. Every hair follicle on my body burned as my hair grew rapidly. The sudden amplification of my senses was always a shock; the smell of those rabbits hiding in a nearby bush was so tempting…

My mind is always the last thing that changes, and in some ways that is the most painful part. Once my body completes the transformation, I lose everything that makes me _me_; memories, opinions, ideas… Gone. All that's left is basic animal instinct, and a strong yearning for raw flesh of any kind.

For me at least, some nights as a werewolf are more memorable than others. There are some nights where I can recall every detail, and there are others where I wake up and have no memory at all.

The next morning, when I came to, I found that this was an instant where I had few memories of what I had done as a werewolf. I awoke suddenly, finding myself tangled in some kind of bush, the sun just beginning to crawl over the horizon. The morning dew had soaked my bare skin, and the branches drew blood as I struggled to free myself from the growth. Tuffs of gray fur were scattered about, and the taste of raw meat lingered on my taste buds; I had to fight my compulsion to gag.

When I Apparated back to my parent's house, I chose to arrive in the bathroom. I used nearly half a tube of toothpaste to get that taste out of my mouth, and I showered until the steaming hot water turned lukewarm.

I examined my new wounds as I toweled off. Most of my cuts and scrapes could be explained away by the thorny bush I had slept in, but there were a few bite marks that worried me. When I looked at my face in the mirror, I could see the telltale signs of premature aging along with the more familiar scars of my youth.

_You knew this was going to happen, Remus,_ I thought to myself as I stalked back to my room, my dripping towel wrapped around my waist. _Lycanthropy puts a lot of stress on the body; you're lucky you were able to last this long without any age lines. Not that they're of any consequence… _

I changed into my suit, noticing a new tear in the sleeve that needed mending.

"Drat," I said, slipping my finger through the torn fabric. "This is my nicer one, too."

"_What do you think you're doing?!_" I heard my mother holler. "_Get out of my house!_"

"_We're not going anywhere,"_ an unfamiliar voice replied. "_Until we get that wolf._"

My heart went cold.

"_I can't believe you let that _thing_ back in here, Imogen!_" another woman said, sounding just as hysterical as my mother had. "_Knowing what he could do! Some of us in the village have children-"_

"_Remus is my child!"_ she screamed back. "_Now get out of my house, or I swear-_"

"_Now, Imogen,"_ the first voice said, and I heard my mother let out a tiny gasp. "_I happen to know you're no dualist, and I don't see that fool husband of yours-_"

"_Don't you dare call John a fool_!" she snarled. "_He's twice the wizard you'll ever be_!"

"_That's enough_!" yet another voice declared. "_Hand over the bloody werewolf, or we'll kill you first!"_

That was it – I couldn't stand at the top of the stairs and listen anymore. Wand in hand, I ran down the staircase as quickly as I could. My joints still ached from my transformation, and it was all I could do to put on a straight face for the attackers.

There were more than I thought, I realized once I got to the bottom. There were at least twenty of them, some of whom I vaguely recognized from my childhood. They filled the entryway, and I could see several more standing outside on the porch. Most of them were armed with wands. Those that weren't carried more primitive weapons, like clubs and pitchforks.

I couldn't help but feel hurt. I knew they had every right to hate me, especially since – as the woman had said – I could easily murder and mutilate their children by accident. But as I looked at their horrified faces, I felt my heart breaking. I knew it was impossible, but I wanted so badly for them to accept me.

"Looks like we don't have to search for him after all," one of the men said. He was several heads shorter than I was, but he had a thick build and a strong, intimidating voice.

"Remus, go back upstairs," my mother hissed at me. "Let me handle this."

"No," I said, tightening my grip on my wand. I glared at the intruders. "I don't care what you do to me, but if you lay a hand on her-"

"How can you come back here?" the hysterical woman in front demanded. "We thought we were done with you!"

"I… I have nowhere else to go," I said simply.

"Well, you better find somewhere else to go," the man said, pointing his wand at me. "Because you sure as hell don't belong here."

"Expellimellius," my mother cried shrilly, and the man's arm quickly caught fire. He screamed with pain, rolling around on the floor in an attempt to put the flame out. Another member of the mob finally doused the fire with some sort of water spell.

Mum gave him a swift kick while he was still down. "Don't you _dare_ touch my son again. If you do, it'll be your face-"

I gulped, "Mother-"

"Imogen," the woman pleaded. "How can you possibly call this monster your son? Please, see reason…"

"Get out of my house," she said through gritted teeth. I swore I could still see the reflection of flames dancing in her eyes.

Most of them obeyed her, and quickly stumbled out the front door. Perhaps they could see the fire in her eyes as well… Yes, that must have been it. Why else would they have gone? The odds were on their side.

However, the man with the burnt arm stayed. He glared up at us, growling a little as he spoke, "This isn't over yet. If you don't get that thing out of our village, we will! Even if I have to tear your whole bloody house down to get to 'em! I won't rest until I have that werewolf's head mounted on my wall, mark my words!"

She didn't say anything, but the flames in her eyes seemed to grow as she waved her wand at the man. In seconds, he was sailing out the front door as if he were weightless. I heard him land on the ground outside with an _oomph _before the door slammed shut.

"I'm so sorry you had to hear all that, Remus," she said, staring at the floor.

"No," I sighed. "I'm used to it by now. And besides, they're right. Which is why I'm leaving tomorrow."

She gasped, "Remus, no-"

"I have to," I said. "I don't want them coming back here. They'll hurt you, mother. They might try to kill you, even."

"I don't care!" she sobbed, grabbing my shoulders so she could give me a good shake. "You're my son!"

"And I'm sick of causing you trouble," I said sternly.

"But…" she whimpered. "Where will you go?"

That was the tough part, wasn't it? Even if I could find someplace I could afford, my condition would never allow me to stay in the same place for too long. Anyone with any wit at all would eventually catch on, and as soon as they did, I would be kicked out without a second thought.

"I'm sure I'll find something," I lied. "Don't worry."


End file.
